If you have spent any time at all on this here blog, you will know that I am very sad – one might, if one were clinically inclined, say I am neurotically obsessed with – the fact that the intensely active and creative phase of my motherhood is coming to an end.
This is not to say, however, that there are not a few aspects of mothering to which I am positively chipper to bid adieu. Off the top of my head, I can cheerfully say, “Good riddance” to birthday parties for children under ten, make that twelve, years old. Also, I don’t mind admitting that I am really happy that, when we are supposed to be on our way somewhere and I have decided that before we go I just have to write a few more emails, wipe down the kitchen counters, throw a load of laundry in and re-organize the running shoes unacceptably strewn on the front porch, my children don’t hassle me about it. From them there is no pestering, no pulling at my leg, no whining, no incessant visits to wherever I am to see whether or not I am finally ready.
No my boys have put away those childish things. And I gotta tell ya, I am really happy about it.
But does that mean I am no longer beleaguered, importuned, hassled, or harassed at those moments? It does not. I am now positively, completely and utterly…dogged.